Is there for honest Poverty
That hings his head an a that
The coward slave - we pass him by
We dare be poor for a that !
For a that, an a that
Our toils obscure an a that,
The ranks is but the guinea's stamp,
The Man's the gowd for a that .

What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hoddin grey an a that,
Gie fools their skills and knaves their wine
A Man's a Man for a that.
For a that, an a that,
Their tinsel show, an a that,
The honest man, tho e'er sae poor,
Is king o men for a that.

Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord
Wha struts an stares an a that,
Tho hundreds worship at his word
He's but a coof for a that,
For a that, an a that
His ribband star an a that,
The man o independent mind
He looks an laughs at a that.

A prince can mak a belted knight
A marquis , duke an a that
But an honest man's abon his might
Gude faith, he maunna fa that!
For a that, an a that,
Their dignities an a that,
The pith o sense an pride o worth,
Are higher rank than a that.

Then let us pray that come it may,
(As come it will for a that)
That Sense and Worth o'er a the earth
Shall bear the gree an a that,
For a that an a that
It's coming yet for a that,
That Man to Man the world o'er
Shall brothers be for a that.

trinkie

23-Jan-07, 13:08

What a breath-taking moment when this was sung unaccompanied at the Opening of the Scottish Parliament in 1999....Everyone joined in.

Lavenderblue2

25-Jan-07, 21:32

Yes, Trinkie a breath-taking moment indeed.

Here's a modern alternative which I think is in praise of the Bard.

Kate O’Shanter

And where do you suppose, was Kate
When market days were wearing late
While Tam frequented wretched dives
And fooled around with landlords’ wives
And rode poor Meg through mud and ditches
And had an eye for handsome witches,
Played Peeping Tom at Alloway
And yelled and gave himself away
And fled from there, amid the din
And Maggie barely saved his skin??

Not where you think!

Kate slaved away, the livelong day
They had so many bills to pay
The twins just had to have new shoes
And Tammie spent so much on booze.
She bathed and clothed and fed the twins.
She bakes the bread, she knits and spins.
She does the wash, she mends the clothes,
And what all else, God only knows!
She keeps the house all neat and trim,
And makes a lunch for ploughboy Jim-
A neighbour lad, they hire by day,
Who does Tam’s work, while Tam’s away.

She herds the sheep and cattle, too
Feeds hens, milks cows, and when that’s through
Makes cheese and butter, gathers eggs –
For Tam to sell on market day
And drink the proceeds half away!
In harvest time, from early morn,
Her sickle reaps the oats and corn,
And many a sunny summer day
She and ploughboy Jim make hay.
When they got home, that night, at four
And Maggie’d found the stable door
Tam tumbled, senseless on the floor
To sleep it off, eight hours or more –
He tossed and turned, mid hail and rain
Went through that nightmare ride again.

About the middle of the day
The livestock had a lot to say;
The chicken, donkey, goose and cow
Said we want food, and want it Now
Tam stirred upon his lowly bed
And saw Meg’s stump above his head.
An awful thought ran through his brain.
Oh Lord! That wasn’t hail and rain

Tam struggled slowly to his feet,
He was not clean, he was not neat
He scraped off what he could, but when
He’d found his way, from but to ben
Tam stood dumfounded: ‘What the hell’
Fro Kate was gone, the twins as well.

But Kate had left a note for him:
I’ve sailed for Montreal, with Jim
And we expect to settle soon
Out on a farm near Saskatoon.
Forgive me Tam, and don’t be sore –
I couldn’t take it anymore
I had to find a better way
Before I’d slaved my youth away.
I had to try to save myself –
You’ll find the oatmeal on the shelf –
Don’t fash yoursell’ about the twins
I might as well confess, they’re Jim’s….

Written by
Seanair
Melbourne Australia
Published in Scottish Field January 1993

Tubthumper

19-May-07, 19:15

A Celebration Of The Bard Of Scottish Nation
It’s my pleasant inclination
To give humorous narration
Re the females situation
As part of obligation
To the bard of Scottish Nation
For your further delectation

As a form of explanation
The shape of presentation
Has been born of desperation
With a bit of irritation
And some intense concentration
Whilst awaiting inspiration

So the main manifestation
Will amuse your contemplation
And give super satisfaction
With no harassment infraction
And no active prosecution
But meet every expectation

In this case it’s not narration
Of some Robert Burns quotation
There need be no consternation
As our ultimate destination
Is a substantial libation
Of a Celtic distillation

Now Robert Burns intention
Was some covert observation
Of some skirt/leg titillation
Or of hip/thigh revelation
And some manly rumination
Plus some quiet contemplation

Though with a predilection
For intense inebriation
With a whisky-like concoction
His poetic creation
Gained some serious publication
And resulted in attraction

The ladies of the Nation
Who received young Burns’ attention
Found some intense stimulation
And unplanned fertilisation
Leading to much procreation
With the bard’s participation

Now the Kirk of Scottish nation
When it heard his aberration
Of carnal multiplication
Considered it abomination
And placed him in the station
To endure humiliation

What a dreadful situation
A public exposition
Cos of love struck agitation
And a steady accumulation
Of unwed bedtime action
And horizontal agitation

I’m recommending congregation
To the female situation
And to further reproduction
For the future of our nation
In the fine anticipation
Of our work-related pension

So here is my summation
All the girls need adoration
And romantic inspiration
Burns memory needs retention
But remember – celebration
Of the feminine condition!

trinkie

20-May-07, 10:42

I love it - so very clever. Thank you.

I must admit I have been sitting here trying to reply in a more clever way,
but it just wont come. ( Another minor problem has raised it's ugly head this morning and sapped the last few remaining sparks of intelligence from within my old head.)

More please.
Trinkie

NickInTheNorth

20-May-07, 11:41

as brilliantly done as Benjamin Zephaniah himself could have rhymed it

Tubthumper

04-Jun-07, 23:18

Ye Scottish men, will ye lend me an ear
If you can separate yourself from your beer
Or tear yourself from the TV screen
From Thurso Toun to Aberdeen

From Edinburgh to Glasgow
We thought that we’d just let you know
We girls are sick to teeth of waiting
For promised shelves and decorating

For Christmas buy me drills and screws
And let me gorge and binge on booze
Since Carol Smiley led the way
We’re Do It Yourself girls every day

Quite angry now is how we’re feeling
So we’ve broken through the old glass ceiling
Whereas before we would stay at home
Now high in the world of work we roam

You can talk of Burns in modern time
And though his words have rhythm and rhyme
A view of girls as aggressive drinkers
Misses the point, we’re sensible thinkers

A family and a good career
Can be balanced without fear
A man on board adds to the fun
But we can function in units of one

No more days of wrinkles fear
Cellulite there or saggy bits here
These days we don’t wait man’s interest
To consider implants upon our chest

For far too long we have worried so
No more! If you don’t like it, Go!
I jest, the future of mankind
Would fail if we left men behind

And so, although we like a date
And men to letch, appreciate
Just see it from our point of view
Respect as individuals from you?

Listen boys, just think of this
That girl is independent miss
A muscled bum is not enough
If you want to attract a bit of fluff

Robert Burns wrote poems for boys
But viewed his girls as more than toys
On equal terms we lassies boast
To men: Girls raise your glasses, TOAST!
TO THE LADDIES!!!

trinkie

06-Dec-07, 20:37

Man Was Made
to Mourn</B>
by Robert Burns
(1759-1796)

When chill November's surly blast
Made fields and forests bare,
One evening, as I wandered forth,
Along the bank of Ayr,
I spied a man, whose aged step
Seemed weary, worn with care;
His face was furrowed o'er with years,
And hoary was his hair.

"Young stranger, whither wanderest thou?"
Began the reverend sage;
"Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain,
Or youthful pleasure's rage?
Or haply, prest with cares and woes,
Too soon thou has began
To wander forth, with me, to mourn
The miseries of man!

"The sun that overhangs yon moors,
Outspreading far and wide,
Where hundreds labor to support
A haughty lordling's pride --
I've seen yon weary winter sun
Twice forty times return;
And every time has added proof
That man was made to mourn.

"O man, while in the early years,
How prodigal of time!
Misspending all thy precious hours,
Thy glorious youthful prime!
Alternate follies take the sway:
Licentious passions burn;
Which ten-fold force gives nature's law,
That man was made to mourn.

"Look not alone on youthful prime,
Or manhood's active might;
Men then is useful to his kind
Supported in his right;
But see him on the edge of life,
With cares and sorrows worn,
Then age and want, O ill-matched pair!
Show man was made to mourn.

"A few seem favorites of fate,
In pleasure's lap carest;
Yet think not all the rich and great
Are likewise truly blest.
But, oh, what crowds in every land
Are wretched and forlorn!
Through weary life this lesson learn --
That man was made to mourn.

"Many and sharp the numerous ills,
Inwoven with our frame!
More pointed still we make ourselves,
Regret, remorse, and shame!
And man, whose heaven-erected face
The smiles of love adorn,
Man's inhumanity to man
Makes countless thousands mourn!

"See yonder poor, o'erlabored wight,
So abject, mean and vile,
Who begs a brother of the earth
To give him leave to toil;
And see his lordly fellow-worm
The poor petition spurn,
Unmindful, 'though a weeping wife
And help less offspring mourn.

"If I'm designed you lording's slave --
By nature's law designed --
Why was a independent wish
E'er planted in my mind?
If not, why am I subject to
His cruelty and scorn?
Or why has man the will and power
To make his fellow mourn?

"Yet let not this too much, my son,
Disturb thy youthful breast:
This partial view of humankind
Is surely not the last!
The poor oppressed, yet honest man
Had never, sure, been born,
Had there not been some recompense
To comfort those that mourn!

"O death! the poor man's dearest friend,
The kindest and the best!
Welcome the hour my aged limbs
Are laid with thee at rest!
The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow,
From pomp and pleasure torn;
But, oh, a blest relief to those
That weary-laden mourn!"

O Thou, who kindly dost provide
For ev’ry creature’s want !
We bless the God of Nature wide
For all Thy goodness lent.
And if it please Thee, heavenly Guide,
May never worse be sent
But, whether granted or denied,
Lord, bless us with content.

After meat.

O Thou, in whom we live and move,
Who made the sea and shore,
Thy goodness constantly we prove,
And, grateful, would adore;
And, if it please Thee, Power above!
Still grant us with such store
The friend we trust, the fair we love,
And we desire no more.

Shabbychic

25-Jan-08, 15:53

Up In The Morning Early

Up in the morning's no for me,
Up in the morning early!
When a' the hills are covered wi' snaw.
I'm sure it's winter fairly!

Cauld blaws the wind frae east to west,
The drift is driving sairly,
Sae loud and shrill's I hear the blast,
I'm sure it's winter fairly!

Up in the morning's no for me,
Up in the morning early!
When a' the hills are covered wi' snaw.
I'm sure it's winter fairly

The birds sit chittering in the thorn,
A' day they fare but sparely;
And lang's the night frae e'en to morn,
I'm sure it's winter fairly!

Up in the morning's no for me,
Up in the morning early!
When a' the hills are covered wi' snaw.
I'm sure it's winter fairly

Lavenderblue2

25-Jan-08, 16:01

Apologies as this wasn't written by Burns...

Kate O’Shanter

And where do you suppose, was Kate
When market days were wearing late
While Tam frequented wretched dives
And fooled around with landlords’ wives
And rode poor Meg through mud and ditches
And had an eye for handsome witches,
Played Peeping Tom at Alloway
And yelled and gave himself away
And fled from there, amid the din
And Maggie barely saved his skin??

Not where you think!

Kate slaved away, the livelong day
They had so many bills to pay
The twins just had to have new shoes
And Tammie spent so much on booze.
She bathed and clothed and fed the twins.
She bakes the bread, she knits and spins.
She does the wash, she mends the clothes,
And what all else, God only knows!
She keeps the house all neat and trim,
And makes a lunch for ploughboy Jim-
A neighbour lad, they hire by day,
Who does Tam’s work, while Tam’s away.

She herds the sheep and cattle, too
Feeds hens, milks cows, and when that’s through
Makes cheese and butter, gathers eggs –
For Tam to sell on market day
And drink the proceeds half away!
In harvest time, from early morn,
Her sickle reaps the oats and corn,
And many a sunny summer day
She and ploughboy Jim make hay.
When they got home, that night, at four
And Maggie’d found the stable door
Tam tumbled, senseless on the floor
To sleep it off, eight hours or more –
He tossed and turned, mid hail and rain
Went through that nightmare ride again.

About the middle of the day
The livestock had a lot to say;
The chicken, donkey, goose and cow
Said we want food, and want it Now
Tam stirred upon his lowly bed
And saw Meg’s stump above his head.
An awful thought ran through his brain.
Oh Lord! That wasn’t hail and rain

Tam struggled slowly to his feet,
He was not clean, he was not neat
He scraped off what he could, but when
He’d found his way, from but to ben
Tam stood dumfounded: ‘What the hell’
Fro Kate was gone, the twins as well.

But Kate had left a note for him:
I’ve sailed for Montreal, with Jim
And we expect to settle soon
Out on a farm near Saskatoon.
Forgive me Tam, and don’t be sore –
I couldn’t take it anymore
I had to find a better way
Before I’d slaved my youth away.
I had to try to save myself –
You’ll find the oatmeal on the shelf –
Don’t fash yoursell’ about the twins
I might as well confess, they’re Jim’s….

Written by
Seanair
Melbourne Australia
Published in Scottish Field January 1993

Fourteen, a sonneteer thy praises sings,
What magic myst’ries in that number lie !
Your hen hath fourteen eggs beneath her wings,
That fourteen chickens to the roost may fly.
Fourteen full pounds the jockey’s stone must be;
His age fourteen – a horse’s prime is past.
Fourteen long hours too oft the Bard must fast;
Fourteen bright bumpers – bliss he ne’er must see !
Before fourteen, a dozen yields the strife;
Before fourteen – e’en thirteen’s strength is vain.
Fourteen good years – a woman gives us life,
Fourteen good men - we lose that life again.
What lucubrations can be more upon it ?
Fourteen good measur’d verses make a sonnet .
…………………………………………………….

TRAGIC FRAGMENT

All villain as I am – a damned wretch,
A hardened, stubborn, unrepenting sinner –
Still my heart melts at human wretchedness,
And with sincere, tho’ unavailing, sighs
I view the helpless children of distress.
With tears indignant I behold the oppressor
Rejoicing in the honest man’s destruction,
Whose unsubmitting heart was all his crime.
Ev’n you, ye hapless crew ! I pity you.
Ye, whom the seeming good think sin to pity:
Ye poor, despised, abandoned vagabonds,
Whom Vice, as usual, has turned o’er to ruin.
Oh! But for friends and interposing Heaven,
I had been driven forth, like you forlorn,
The most detested, worthless wretch among you !
O injured God! Thy goodness has endow’d me
With talents passing most of my compeers,
Which I in just proportion have abused,
As far surpassing other common villains
As Thou in natural parts has given me more.
………………………………………………

Holy Willie’s Prayer

O Thou that in the Heavens does dwell,
Wha, as it pleases best Thysel,
Sends ane to Heaven an’ ten to Hell
A’ for Thy glory,
And no for one guid or ill
They’ve done before Thee !

I bless and praise Thy matchless might,
When thousands Thou hast left in night,
That I am here before Thy sight,
For gifts an’ grace,
A burning and a shining light
To a’ this place.

What was I, or my generation,
That I should get sic exaltation ?
I, wha deserved most just damnation,
For broken laws,
Sax thousand years ere my creation,
Thro’ Adam’s cause !

When from my mither’s womb I fell,
Thou might hae plung’d me deep in hell,
To gnash my gooms, and weep and wail
In burning lakes,
Whare damned devils roar and yell,
Chain’d to their stakes.

Yet I am here , a chosen sample,
To show Thy grace is great and ample;
I’m here a pillar o’ Thy temple,
Strong as a rock,
A guide, a buckler, and example,
To a’ Thy flock !

Weel Rabbie we hed a grand nicht
Wi company jist aboot richt
Frae Holy Willie till Kate o’ Shanter
The room wis fu’ o’ plenty banter
The Scotch wis flowing –
The Haggis jist fine
We said the Grace as we sat doon till dine.
Then Up in the Morning till dotter
Doon aroon’ by Afton Water,
We pit on oor bonnets
An said a few sonnets
Nodded ‘Good Mornin’’ till Leezie’s daughter,
Then all too soon twas time till pert
As some Mad soul left off a big fert.
Wi Ae Fond Kiss as each did sever
For Ye we’ll mind forever and ever.

Moira

26-Jan-08, 23:45

Great thread Trinkie - thank you! I did try to post my favourite and (for me and a few others here) the most topical of Rabbie's works yesterday. However, the spacing became messed up when I copied & pasted and I did not have time to correct it.

I'm sure the Bard himself would forgive me for posting this late, given that we can now purchase Easter Eggs in December. :)

We’ve listened while he charmed us wi’ "The Banks o’ Bonnie Doon"
"Lea Rig" and "John Anderson" he cannily did croon.
"A Man’s a Man" and "Duncan Gray" will aye be to the fore,
"The Bonnie Lass o’ Ballochmyle" we’ll evermore adore !

Full weel he plied his shuttle as the matchless songs he wove,
Rich threeds his soul did kittle, these he twined in songs o’ love.
Nor a lover need hev bother in the wooin’ o’ his dear,
He fae Robin’s mint micht gether, and the love’licht clear !

"When man to man wad brithers be" in that he did foresee,
The nations, then at heids an thraws, set in felicity,
A world transformed by kindness, and the graces it commands,
The life, as ‘twas intended would thrive in distand lands !
……………………………………………………………….

ROBERT BURNS.

Wha’s this I see among the fields of Ayr,
Sae blithely singin’ be it foul or fair?
A plooman – ay, but sharely something mair,
Sae sweet he sings.

WE’RE KAITNESS FOWK FOR A’ THAT.
A new song to an old lilt.
From the JOG 1923

Is there a fyarter fae ‘e north
Fa hides his birth an a that,
An blushes ‘cause his faither’s hoose
Is thecked wi straw an a that ?
For a that, an a that
Wir modest crofts an a that,
E foosum trosk, we pass him by –
We’re Kaitness Fowk an a that !

What though we toil in fishin boats,
Howk tattie fields an a that,
Or drive a cairtie till e hills
A man’s a man for a that !
For a that, an a that –
Wir herrin nets an a that,
Despise fa will wir canny ways
We’re Kaitness Fowk for a that.

Ye see yin shither dressed in spats,
Fa scorns his nest an a that ?
Though florin in a motor car,
He’s no a man fort a that !
For a that, an a that,
His honours, blunt, an a that,
Till hiz he’s jist a blostin feel –
We’re Kaitness Fowk for a that.

Oh, southern lands hev richer fields
Wi floorags, trees an a that,
I wudna gie a tattie bleem
O Kaitness soil, for a that !
For a that, an a that,
Here’s til wirsels for a that !
Though up or down, though far or dear,
We’re Kaitness Fowk for a that !
……………………………………………

My sincere thanks to a great freen who keeps sending me such wonderful Caithness Verses !
A few names of authors still to be found - can anyone help here?

trinkie

30-Jan-08, 10:01

The Loves that Robbie Missed.
By Duncan Mackenzie, Beauly.

To a Toast to the Lasses.
From the Caithness Courier 1950

The Loves that Robbie Missed.

O Robbie, though loved your Hielan Mary,
You never saw her on her native hill,
Nor roamed with her through bonny purple heather,
Or kissed her near her native mountain rill.

O you never saw the treasures of the Highlands,
That sparkle north of the Caledon canal
Or viewed the sunrise over Kessock Ferry;
Seen auld Ben Wyvis smile on Balliechaul.

You saw not the beauties of Glen Affric,
Nor trod the water side by old Strathglass,
The golden eagle soar on Scuir-na-Lapaith
Nor taste the lipstick of a Beauly Lass.

Trod ye not with Cromach to the Highlands
Or smelt and felt the tangle of the Isles
You cuddled not the lassies sweet in my land
And missed the glorious poetry of their smiles.

You sailed not up the Minch to Isle o’Lewis
Nor saw the West’ring Isles gleam in the sun,
Ye heard not the poetry of the Islesmen,
In Gaelic songs when day’s work is done.

You viewed not the windings of the Beauly,
Or on it’s banks, you never squeezed or kissed,
O sorry for you Robbie, is yours truly
To think of all the loves that you have missed.

trinkie

03-Feb-08, 11:56

I have just found some info on this poem -
it was written by
Seanair, Melbourne, Australia,

published in the Scottish Field, Jany 1993.

Thank you for submitting it Lavenderblue2

trinkie

14-Jan-09, 08:58

Start brushing up your Burns again and let's have another good night.
Everyone is invited to join in with a Burns verse or two.
Your favourites are welcome as from today, and on the Big Night do come along and bring a dram.... Lavenderblue will bake a cake, and Moira some shortbread, all donations gratefully received.
Dont forget to bring an instrument - pipes, boxie, clarsach, guitar - and the piano is at the ready.

Of course Caithness verses relating to Burns are more than welcome - there are many !

Time and Chance are but a tide
( Ha ha the wooing o’t)
Slighted love is sair to bide
( Ha ha the wooing o’t)
‘Shall I like a fool’ quoth he
‘For a haughty hizzie die?
She may gae to – France for me!’-
Ha ha the wooing o’t.

How it comes, let doctors tell
( Ha ha the wooing o’t)
Meg grew sick as he grew hale,
(Ha ha the wooing o’t)
Something in her bosom wrings,
For relief a sigh she brings,
And O! her een they spak sic things!
Ha ha the wooing o’t.

Duncan was a lad o’ grace,
( Ha ha the wooin o’t)
Maggie’s was a piteous case
( Ha ha the wooing o’t)
Duncan could na be her death
Swelling pity smoor’d his wrath,
Now they’re crouse and canty baith –
Ha ha the wooing o’t.

" Robert Burns wrote the words in 1792.

The lively tune ‘Duncan Gray’ as generally reported,
was composed by Duncan Gray a Carter or Carman
in Glasgow about the beginning of the last century (1700s)
and the tune was taken down from his whistling it
2 – 3 times a day, to a musician in that city.
It is inserted in both the MacGibbon and
Oswald’s Collections " taken from Songs of Scotland by G.F.Graham

Lavenderblue2

14-Jan-09, 17:39

Start brushing up your Burns again and let's have another good night.
Everyone is invited to join in with a Burns verse or two.
Your favourites are welcome as from today, and on the Big Night do come along and bring a dram.... Lavenderblue will bake a cake, and Moira some shortbread, all donations gratefully received.
Dont forget to bring an instrument - pipes, boxie, clarsach, guitar - and the piano is at the ready.

Of course Caithness verses relating to Burns are more than welcome - there are many !

Trinkie

Thank you for the Invitation Trinkie. I've had a wee practice on my boxie today - Ca' the Yowes etc... The cats enjoyed it, at least, they sang along! :lol:
I think I'll bake a Whisky cake for the night.

Looking in my book of Burns I found the following:

Versified Reply To An Invitation.

Sir,
Yours this moment I unseal,
And faith I’m gay and hearty!
To tell the truth and shame the deil,
I am as fou as Bartie:
But Foorsday, sir, my promise leal,
Expect me o’ your party,
If on a beastie I can speel,
Or hurl in a cartie.

Yours,
Robert Burns.

Mauchlin, Monday night, 10 o’clock.

Moira

16-Jan-09, 00:17

Start brushing up your Burns again and let's have another good night......
Everyone is invited to join in with a Burns verse or two.
Your favourites are welcome as from today, and on the Big Night do come along and bring a dram.... Lavenderblue will bake a cake, and Moira some shortbread, all donations gratefully received.
Dont forget to bring an instrument - pipes, boxie, clarsach, guitar - and the piano is at the ready.
Of course Caithness verses relating to Burns are more than welcome - there are many !
Trinkie

I hate to tell you this Trinkie but I don't do very good shortbread. However, I reckon I could still pull a recognisable tune from a piano accordian and my hubby has a good stock of Old Pulteney (we can't stand the stuff btw).

I've merged some threads here so it may seem we're all out of kilter, but some of us know better. :)

It was upon a Lammas night
When corn rigs are bonie
Beneath the moon’s unclouded light
I held awa to Annie.
The time flew by, wi tentless heed,
Till ‘tween the late and early,
Wi sma persuasion she agreed,
To see me thro’ the barley.

The sky was blue, the wind was still,
The moon was shining clearly
I set her doon wi’ right good will
Amang the rigs o’ barley.
I kent her heart was a my ain,
I lov’d her most sincerely,
I kiss’d her owre and owre again
Amang the rigs o’ barley.

I lock’d her in my fond embrace
Her heart was beating rarely,
My blessing on that happy place,
Amang the rigs o’ barley.
But by the moon and stars so bright,
That shone that hour so clearly!
She ay shall bless that happy night
Amang the rigs o barley.

I hae been blythe wi comrades dear,
I hae been merry drinking,
I hae been joyfu’ gatherin gear,
I hae been happy thinking,
But a' the pleasures e’er I saw,
Tho three times doubled fairly,
That happy night was worth them a’
Amang the rigs o’ barley.

“ The above verses were written by Robert Burns in his earlier years,
to the old tune of ‘Corn Rigs’
It is said that Annie Ronald, was the inspirer of the song.
The tune is a very old one, it appears in Craig’s Collection 1730.
Craig was a very old man and one of the principle violin players
at the Edinburgh Concerts in 1695.
This tune was selected for a musical opera of ‘Polly’ beginning
‘Should I not be bold when honour calls’ printed c.1729 “

taken from Songs of Scotland by G F Grahamn. C. 1860,

Lavenderblue2

18-Jan-09, 17:54

I think this is a beautiful song - Burns words are used in the Irish Traditional folk song The Curragh of Kildare.

The Winter It Is Past

v. 1 and 2, written by Robert Burns in 1788;
v.3 and 4 unknown

The winter it is past,
And the summers comes at last,
And the small birds sing on ev'ry tree;
The hearts of these are glad,
While I am very sad,
Since my true love is parted from me.

The rose upon the breer,
By the waters running clear,
May have charms for the linnet or the bee;
Their little loves are blest
And their little hearts at rest,
But my true love is parted from me.

My love is like the sun,
In the firmament does run,
For ever constant and true;
But his is like the moon
That wanders up and down,
And every month it is new.

All you that are in love
And cannot it remove,
I pity the pains you endure:
For experience makes me know
That your hearts are full of woe,
A woe no mortal can cure.

When thou was corn't, an' I was mellow,
We took the road ay like a swallow:
At brooses thou had ne'er a fellow,
For pith an' speed;
But ev'ry tail thou pay't them hollow,
Whare'er thou gaed.

The sma, droop-rumpl't, hunter cattle
Might aiblins waur't thee for a brattle;
But sax Scotch miles thou try't their mettle,
And gar't them whaizle:
Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle
O' saugh or hazle.

Dear old Maggie - I now know where Mr MacGregor got his inspiration for his Fordson poem submitted by me in an earlier thread. ;)

AfternoonDelight

21-Jan-09, 12:14

We had this sung at our wedding ceremony, it was absolutely beautiful!

My Heart is in the Highlands

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here,
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer -
A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe;
My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go.

Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North
The birth place of Valour, the country of Worth;
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,
The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.

Farewell to the mountains high cover'd with snow;
Farewell to the straths and green valleys below;
Farewell to the forrests and wild-hanging woods;
Farwell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods.

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here,
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe;
My heart's in the Highlands, whereever I go.

trinkie

21-Jan-09, 12:45

From ‘ Songs of Scotland’ by G F Graham, c. 1860

‘‘ My Heart’s in the Highlands, In his note 259 of Johnson, Mr Stenhouse says
‘ The first half stanza of this song (says Burns) is old – the rest is mine’ See Reliques. ‘’
later
‘’ Instead of the air ‘Failte na melsg’’ to which the song is adapted in Johnson’s Museum, we have adopted the much finer Gaelic air called ‘ Crochallan’’ in R H Smith’s Minstrel, but named ‘Crodh Chailean’ by Captn Fraser in his collection.’’

from me ......The tune Crochallan, is the one we mostly use nowadays – was that the air played at your wedding ?

Thank you for submitting this beautiful song.
Trinkie

AfternoonDelight

21-Jan-09, 14:36

It was a lass that sung it with out music, Trinks, fair made the hair on the back of my beautifully perfumed neck stand up!! :lol:

trinkie

21-Jan-09, 14:44

Afternoondelight - The unaccompanied voice - best way to hear that song !
It makes me shiver too!
............................

Lines Written on a Bank Note.
By Robert Burns

Wae worth thy power, thou cursed leaf!
Fell source of a’ my woe and grief,
For lack o’ thee I’ve lost my lass,
For lack of thee I scrimp my glass!
I see the children of affliction
Unaided, through thy curs’d restriction.
I’ve seen the oppressor’s cruel smile
Amid his hapless victims’ spoil;
And for thy potence vainly wish’d
To crush the villain in the dust.
For lack o’ thee I leave this much-lov’d shore,
Never, perhaps, to greet old Scotland more.
……………………………………………

On Hearing a Thrush Sing in a Morning Walk in January.
By Robert Burns

A rose-bud by my early walk
Adown a corn-inclosed bawk,
Sae gently bent its thorny stalk,
All on a dewy morning.
Ere twice the shades o’ dawn are fled,
In a’ its crimson glory spread
And drooping rich the dewy head
It scents the early morning.

Within the bush her covert next
A little linnet fondly prest,
The dew sat chilly on her breast,
Sae early in the morning.
She soon shall see her tender brood,
The pride, the pleasure o’ the wood,
Amang the fresh green leaves bedew’d
Awake the early morning.

So thou, dear bird, young Jeany fair,
On trembling string or vocal air
Shall sweetly pay the tender care
That tents thy early morning!
So thou, sweet rose-bud, young and gay
Shalt beauteous blaze upon the day,
And bless the parent’s evening ray,
That watch’d thy early morning!

“The subject of this song was Miss Cruickshanks, daughter of William Cruickshanks, one of the Masters of the High School, in whose house Burns resided for some time during his visit to Edinburgh in 1787.”

Taken from Songs of Scotland by G F Grahham.

Trinkie

trinkie

21-Jan-09, 19:27

Is There for Honest Poverty
By Robert Burns

Is there for honest poverty
That hings his head an’ a’ that?
The coward slave, we pass him by –
We dare be poor for a’ that!
For a’ that, an’ a’ that,
Our toils obscure, an’ a’ that,
The rank is but the guinea’s stamp,
The man’s the gowd for a’ that.

What though on hamely fare we dine
Wear hoddin grey, an’ a’ that?
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine –
A man’s a man for a’ that.
For a’ that, an’ a’ that.
The tinsel show, an’ a’ that,
The honest man, tho’ e’er sae poor,
Is king o’ men for a’ that.

Then let us pray that come it may
( As come it will for a’ that)
That Sense and Worth o’er a’ the earth
Shall bear the gree an’ a’ that!
For a’ that, an’ a’ that,
It’s comin yet for a’ that,
That man to man the world o’er
Shall brithers be for a’ that.
…………………………………..

Burns wrote two songs for the air. The other song was called 'Tho' women's minds, like winter winds!'
But I dont have the rest of the words !! (from Songs of Scotland by G F Graham.)

trinkie

21-Jan-09, 19:43

Taken from ‘The Russet Coat’ by Christina Keith.

Chapter 11

The Love – Songs

‘You know I am a cool lover’
Burns to Clarinda
18th March, 1788.

It is on the love-songs Burns has made his name. He was writing them, it is true, all his life, but, of the
multitude he wrote, only about a score or so still linger on everybody’s lips.
That however, is a very large number to be at the credit of any individual poet, as songs there is no forgetting.
For a love-song, more than any other, takes a deal of writing, and the percentage of successful ones must be the lowest in all art… For the pitfalls here are not a few. First, over the song’s length. Your inexperienced poet, like Burns at the beginning, is apt to go on for too long. Love evaporates. And in song, nothing goes so quickly off the boil…….
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

So says Christina Keith and her book is well worth reading. In it she considers his art, first in relation to it’s traditional Scots background, and then in it’s wider European setting.
Christina Keith was born in Thurso. Educated at Thurso, Edinburgh and Lausanne, then at Edinburgh University
and Newnham College, Cambridge, she has travelled all over the world – and was once ship-wrecked off the coast of Greece.
For many years she was a don at St Hilda’s College, Oxford, but left in order to return to Caithness and write …..

trinkie

22-Jan-09, 09:59

Scotland Without Burns
By M.H.
c. 1951

Scotland without Burns ! Think o’id
An’ measure, if ye can
All id would mean, had we no’ kent
‘E greatness o’e’ man!

Had he no’ won a princely plaice
Among ‘e poet throng
An’ if no voice hed ever raised
‘E glory o’ his song.

…………………
This is a very old song, which has been touched by many hands.
The chorus is certainly old and the above words are said to have been by Burns,
Though the second verse is thought to have been from the original song.
It isalso thought that Mr Stenhouse may have contributed some of the words.

The above taken from Songs of Scotland by G F Graham.
…………………………………………….
Some of you will remember this beautiful song was sung at the Funeral Service of John Smith, Leader of the Labour Party. C. 1994

Not exactly my favourite, but when I was very young, long before the days of PC, this used to make me giggle :D. I didn't, and still don't, understand half the words. But I read them like a Two Ronnies fun-with-words sketch, and it's still fun . I hope I still think so when I look like Willie's wife :eek:.

Sic A Wife As Willie Had

Robert Burns, 1792

Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed,
The spot they ca'd it Linkumdoddie;
Willie was a wabster gude,
Could stown a clue wi' ony body:
He had a wife was dour and din,
O Tinkler Maidgie was her mither;
Sic a wife as Willie had,
I wad na gie a button for her!

She has an e'e, she has but ane,
The cat has twa the very colour;
Five rusty teeth, forbye a stump,
A clapper tongue wad deave a miller:
A whiskin beard about her mou',
Her nose and chin they threaten ither;
Sic a wife as Willie had,
I wadna gie a button for her!

She's bow-hough'd, she's hein-shin'd,
Ae limpin leg a hand-breed shorter;
She's twisted right, she's twisted left,
To balance fair in ilka quarter:
She has a lump upon her breast,
The twin o' that upon her shouther;
Sic a wife as Willie had,
I wadna gie a button for her!

Auld baudrons by the ingle sits,
An' wi' her loof her face a-washin;
But Willie's wife is nae sae trig,
She dights her grunzie wi' a hushion;
Her walie nieves like midden-creels,
Her face wad fyle the Logan Water;
Sic a wife as Willie had,

I wadna gie a button for her!
http://cache.adviva.net/creative/blank.gif?ts=20090125104539&cmxid=2101.020002253700145601xmc

Happy Burns' Night everyone!

Lavenderblue2

25-Jan-09, 15:36

I hope nobody minds if I submit this poem is in memory of my grandfather David Steven who died on this day in 1957 - he was a great 'Burns man' and this was his favourite, Ca the Yowes was his favourite Burn's song.

Tam O' Shanter

by Robert Burns 1790

When chapman billies leave the street,
And drouthy (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/568.html) neibors, neibors, meet;
As market days are wearing late,
And folk begin to tak (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/1635.html) the gate,
While we sit bousing at the nappy,
An' getting fou and unco happy,
We think na on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps and stiles,
That lie between us and our hame,
Where sits our sulky, sullen dame,
Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.

This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter,
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter:
(Auld Ayr, wham (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/1836.html) ne'er a town surpasses,
For honest men and bonie lasses).

O Tam! had'st thou but been sae wise,
As taen (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/1632.html) thy ain wife Kate's advice!
She tauld thee weel (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/1824.html) thou was a skellum,
A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum;
That frae November till October,
Ae market-day thou was na sober;
That ilka melder (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/1140.html) wi' the Miller,
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller;
That ev'ry naig (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/1181.html) was ca'd a shoe on
The Smith and thee gat (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/749.html) roarin' fou on;
That at the Lord's house, ev'n on Sunday,
Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday,
She prophesied that late or soon,
Thou wad be found, deep drown'd in Doon,
Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk,
By Alloway's auld, haunted kirk.

But to our tale: Ae market night,
Tam had got planted unco right,
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely,
Wi reaming sAats, that drank divinely;
And at his elbow, Souter Johnie,
His ancient, trusty, drougthy crony:
Tam lo'ed (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/1085.html) him like a very brither;
They had been fou (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/714.html) for weeks thegither.
The night drave on wi' sangs an' clatter;
And aye the ale was growing better:
The Landlady and Tam grew gracious,
Wi' favours secret, sweet, and precious:
The Souter (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/1514.html) tauld (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/1648.html) his queerest stories;
The Landlord's laugh was ready chorus:
The storm without might rair (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/1303.html) and rustle,
Tam did na mind (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/1159.html) the storm a whistle.

But pleasures are like poppies spread,
You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed;
Or like the snow falls in the river,
A moment white-then melts for ever;
Or like the Borealis race,
That flit (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/697.html) ere you can point their place;
Or like the Rainbow's lovely form
Evanishing amid the storm. -
Nae man can tether Time nor Tide,
The hour approaches Tam maun ride;
That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane,
That dreary hour he mounts his beast in;
And sic a night he taks the road in,
As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in.

The wind blew as 'twad blawn (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/180.html) its last;
The rattling showers rose on the blast;
The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd;
Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow'd:
That night, a child might understand,
The deil (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/512.html) had business on his hand.

By this time he was cross the ford,
Where in the snaw (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/1493.html) the chapman (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/343.html) smoor'd;
And past the birks and meikle stane,
Where drunken Charlie brak's (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/231.html) neck-bane;
And thro' the whins, and by the cairn,
Where hunters fand (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/628.html) the murder'd bairn;
And near the thorn, aboon (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/10.html) the well,
Where Mungo's mither (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/1167.html) hang'd hersel'.
Before him Doon pours all his floods,
The doubling storm roars thro' the woods,
The lightnings flash from pole to pole,
Near and more near the thunders roll,
When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees,
Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze,
Thro' ilka bore (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/219.html) the beams were glancing,
And loud resounded mirth and dancing.

Warlocks and witches in a dance:
Nae (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/1179.html) cotillon, brent (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/247.html) new frae France,
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels,
Put life and mettle in their heels.
A winnock-bunker (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/1877.html) in the east,
There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast;
A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large,
To gie (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/769.html) them music was his charge:
He screw'd the pipes and gart them skirl,
Till roof and rafters a' did dirl. -
Coffins stood round, like open presses,
That shaw'd the Dead in their last dresses;
And (by some devilish cantraip (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/315.html) sleight)
Each in its cauld (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/334.html) hand held a light.
By which heroic Tam was able
To note upon the haly (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/857.html) table,
A murderer's banes, in gibbet-airns;
Twa span-lang, wee, unchristened bairns;
A thief, new-cutted frae (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/720.html) a rape,
Wi' his last gasp his gabudid gape;
Five tomahawks, wi' blude red-rusted:
Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted;
A garter which a babe had strangled:
A knife, a father's throat had mangled.
Whom his ain son of life bereft,
The grey-hairs yet stack to the heft;
Wi' mair (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/1121.html) of horrible and awfu',
Which even to name wad be unlawfu'.
Three lawyers tongues, turned inside oot,
Wi' lies, seamed like a beggars clout,
Three priests hearts, rotten, black as muck,
Lay stinkin, vile in every neuk.

As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd, and curious,
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious;
The Piper loud and louder blew,
The dancers quick and quicker flew,
The reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit,
Till ilka carlin swat (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/1615.html) and reekit,
And coost (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/419.html) her duddies (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/576.html) to the wark,
And linkit at it in her sark!

But Tam kent what was what fu' brawlie:
There was ae winsome wench and waulie (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/1812.html)
That night enlisted in the core,
Lang (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/1054.html) after ken'd on Carrick shore;
(For mony a beast to dead (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/509.html) she shot,
And perish'd mony a bonie (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/210.html) boat,
And shook baith (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/88.html) meikle (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/1139.html) corn and bear,
And kept the country-side in fear);
Her cutty (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/482.html) sark, o' Paisley harn,
That while a lassie she had worn,
In longitude tho' sorely scanty,
It was her best, and she was vauntie.
Ah! little ken'd thy reverend grannie,
That sark (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/1379.html) she coft (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/408.html) for her wee (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/1823.html) Nannie,
Wi twa (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/1740.html) pund (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/1284.html) Scots ('twas a' (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/4.html) her riches),
Wad (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/1771.html) ever grac'd a dance of witches!

But here my Muse her wing maun (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/1132.html) cour,
Sic (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/1445.html) flights are far beyond her power;
To sing how Nannie lap (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/1055.html) and flang,
(A souple (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/1513.html) jade she was and strang),
And how Tam stood, like ane (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/43.html) bewithc'd,
And thought his very een (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/596.html) enrich'd:
Even Satan glowr'd, and fidg'd fu' (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/723.html) fain,
And hotch'd (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/926.html) and blew wi' might and main:
Till (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/1695.html) first ae caper, syne (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/1626.html) anither,
Tam tint (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/1699.html) his reason a thegither,
And roars out, "Weel done, Cutty-sark!"
And in an instant all was dark:
And scarcely had he Maggie rallied.
When out the hellish legion sallied.

As bees bizz (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/165.html) out wi' angry fyke,
When plundering herds assail their byke;
As open pussie's mortal foes,
When, pop! she starts before their nose;
As eager runs the market-crowd,
When "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud;
So Maggie runs, the witches follow,
Wi' mony an (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/41.html) eldritch (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/601.html) skreich and hollow.

Ah, Tam! Ah, Tam! thou'll get (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/767.html) thy fairin!
In hell, they'll roast thee like a herrin!
In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin!
Kate soon will be a woefu' woman!
Now, do thy speedy-utmost, Meg,
And win (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/1872.html) the key-stone o' the brig;
There, at them thou thy tail may toss,
A running stream they dare na (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/1178.html) cross.
But ere (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/609.html) the keystane she could make,
The fient a (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/669.html) tail she had to shake!
For Nannie, far before the rest,
Hard upon noble Maggie prest,
And flew at Tam wi' (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/1859.html) furious ettle;
But little wist she Maggie's mettle!
Ae (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/13.html) spring (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/1538.html) brought off her master hale,
But (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/288.html) left behind her ain (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/26.html) grey tail:
The carlin (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/324.html) claught (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/376.html) her by (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/291.html) the rump,
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.

Thank you for posting The Lea Rig Helen - it was beautifully sung by whom I wonder?

trinkie

25-Jan-09, 22:21

Thank you for The Lea Rig Helenwyler - so well sung with such feeling. I dont know the singer, though I felt there was a touch of Aberdeen in the voice ?
Does anyone know ?

Lavenderblue2, that was really great, what a lot of typing!
It's such a good story !

I think we've all had a good Burns Nicht. I have certainly enjoyed myself, though I am a bit hoarse with all the singing.
We seem to have covered most of Burns favourites, I hope it was enjoyed by many.

Here's tae ye Rabbie,

Trinkie

pinotnoir

26-Jan-09, 23:10

Hats off to the BBC for this...
http://www.bbc.co.uk/robertburns/works/

trinkie

27-Jan-09, 14:06

And hats off to you too for telling us about this ! I have enjoyed several performances already !

Trinkie

Sporran

27-Jan-09, 21:11

http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=SrPFrtNtF1k

This is lovely - the sung version of The Lea Rig.

Have your tissues handy if you're the blubbering type like me ;).

Thank you for posting The Lea Rig Helen - it was beautifully sung by whom I wonder?

That was indeed beautifully sung, and after some research, I believe it was by the Scottish folk group "Sangsters" from Fife. Take a listen to The Lea Rig in the music samples from their "Begin" album on Amazon, and it sounds the same as the recording on YouTube.

Edina! Scotia's darling seat!
All hail thy palaces and tow'rs,
Where once, beneath a Monarch's feet,
Sat Legislation's sov'reign pow'rs:
From marking wildly scatt'red flow'rs,
As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd,
And singing, lone, the lingering hours,
I shelter in they honour'd shade.

Here Wealth still swells the golden tide,
As busy Trade his labours plies;
There Architecture's noble pride
Bids elegance and splendour rise:
Here Justice, from her native skies,
High wields her balance and her rod;
There Learning, with his eagle eyes,
Seeks Science in her coy abode.

Thy sons, Edina, social, kind,
With open arms the stranger hail;
Their views enlarg'd, their liberal mind,
Above the narrow, rural vale:
Attentive still to Sorrow's wail,
Or modest Merit's silent claim;
And never may their sources fail!
And never Envy blot their name!

Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn,
Gay as the gilded summer sky,
Sweet as the dewy, milk-white thorn,
Dear as the raptur'd thrill of joy!
Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye,
Heaven's beauties on my fancy shine;
I see the Sire of Love on high,
And own His work indeed divine!

With awe-struck thought, and pitying tears,
I view that noble, stately Dome,
Where Scotia's kings of other years,
Fam'd heroes! had their royal home:
Alas, how chang'd the times to come!
Their royal name low in the dust!
Their hapless race wild-wand'ring roam!
Tho' rigid Law cries out 'twas just!

Edina! Scotia's darling seat!
All hail thy palaces and tow'rs;
Where once, beneath a Monarch's feet,
Sat Legislation's sovereign pow'rs:
From marking wildly-scatt'red flow'rs,
As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd,
And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours,
I shelter in thy honour'd shade.

trinkie

25-Jan-10, 20:14

Sporran,
You have received so many Thank You PMs for this Burns Nicht Thread, that your inbox is full !

It's been great fun reading all the poems again. Thanks to everyone.

Trinkie

Sporran

25-Jan-10, 20:23

Whoops, I'd better make some room in my inbox right now, Trinkie! Thanks for the reminder! :)

Stavro

26-Jan-10, 09:18

Burns' was a visionary and could see the danger of tyrannic man's dominion. A very lyrical song.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZDB0P57nQds

Now Westlin Winds
by Robert Burns

Lyric as sung by Dick Gaughan

Now westlin winds and slaughtering guns
Bring autumn's pleasant weather
The moorcock springs on whirring wings
Among the blooming heather
Now waving grain, wild o'er the plain
Delights the weary farmer
And the moon shines bright as I rove at night
To muse upon my charmer

The partridge loves the fruitful fells
The plover loves the mountain
The woodcock haunts the lonely dells
The soaring hern the fountain
Through lofty groves the cushat roves
The path of man to shun it
The hazel bush o'erhangs the thrush
The spreading thorn the linnet

Thus every kind their pleasure find
The savage and the tender
Some social join and leagues combine
Some solitary wander
Avaunt! Away! the cruel sway,
Tyrannic man's dominion
The sportsman's joy, the murdering cry
The fluttering, gory pinion

But Peggy dear the evening's clear
Thick flies the skimming swallow
The sky is blue, the fields in view
All fading green and yellow
Come let us stray our gladsome way
And view the charms of nature
The rustling corn, the fruited thorn
And every happy creature

The English have their Shakespeare
Who wrote a word or two
He did a play about a pound
Of flesh claimed by a Jew
Another was about a prince
Of Denmark, o’er the sea
Who clutched a skull and mumbled out
‘To be or not to be
And then there was Macbeth of course
Whose wife, the silly tart
Persuaded him tae stab the King
At night-time through the heart
I read a bit and yawned a lot
A King that thrashed the sea?
Yeah right, precisely what has that
To do with now and me?

Now Jamesie Joyce, an Irishman
Wrote Ulysses I’m told
Something that should evoke the tales
Of Homer, back in old
The Wake, I heard, of Finnegan
Was worth a look or two
The cover didn’t turn me on
I read – no, not a clue
The artist as a young man is
A work of class I’m told
But on the Dublin master’s works
I cannot say I’m sold
And anyway, the guys in Dublin
Don’t regard his birth
As being fit for party date
In any way of worth

America produced a chap
Quite tall, as tall as tree
Or maybe I misread that bit
‘’Twas Longfellow you see
A master of the new world word
I caught the point he made
His poems was wrote for folk like me
I think that’s what he said
But story? Couldn’t see it quite
This Hiawatha brave
I just let oot a chuckly laugh
A Mini-haha gave
That is enough 'bout foreign chaps
No more about the others
I’m keen on works of Scotland’s Bard
And not his writing brothers

So then we have our Robert Burns
A giant of a Scot
Who wrote short words on man and love
Was proud about his lot
In life he saw a pride in warth
He’d hate iniquity
Hoped man to man the world o’er
Would one day brithers be
Such lines, such bold simplicity
And still today alive
Please join in toast to Robert Burns
May his day thrive and thrive

Sporran

31-Jan-10, 00:16

Brilliant poem, Tubthumper! :cool:

I love it!! :D

trinkie

21-Jan-12, 10:24

Here's a Health to Ane I lo'e Dear
by Robert Burns

Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear,
Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear,
Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet,
And soft as their parting tear – Jessy.

Although thou maun never be mine ,
Although even hope is denied,
'Tis sweeter for thee despairing.
Than aught in the warld beside – Jessy.

Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear
Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear.
Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet,
And soft as their parting tear – Jessy.

I mourn thro' the gay, gaudy day,
as, hopeless, I muse on thy charms,
But welcome the dream o' sweet slumber,
For then I am lockt in thy arms – Jessy.

Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear,
Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear,
Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet,
And soft as their parting – Jessy.

The following verse comes from an old book and is not often included -

The above poem in Blackie's 'Book of Scottish Song' p. 133, is the following note
'This exquisite little song was among the last Burns ever wrote. It was composed in honour of Jessie Lewars (now Mrs Thomson of Dumfries) the sister of a brother exciseman of the poet, and one who has endeared her name to posterity by the affectionate solicitude with which she tended Burns during his last illness.' Mr Stenhouse in vol v. p 371 of Museum, says that the air was communicated by Burns, but is not genuine. Mr Stenhouse annexes a copy of the music in three-eight time, which he gives as correct, but does not say whence he derived it. The author of the tune is not known. It has little of the Scottish, and still kess if an antique character. In
Johnson's and other more recent sets of the air, the rhythm is spoled by an interpolation, to make it suit the metre of verses written by Burns, which do not correspond with the metre of the Jacobite song as given by Mr Stenhouse; each stanza of which consists of three lines of eight syllables, and one of seven.
Burns himself strenuously opposed any alteration in the national Scottish melodies. In a letter to Mr Thomson, April 1793, in which he sends the song beginning 'Farewell, thou stream that winding flows' he writes thus – 'One hint let me give you – whatever Mr Pleyel does, let him not alter one iota of the original Scottish airs; I mean in the song department; but let our national music preserve its native features. They are, I own, frequently wild and irreducible to the more modern rules; but on that very eccentricity, perhaps depends a great part of their effect.'
In his answer to that letter Mr Thomson, 26th April 1793 says - 'Pleyel does not alter a single note of the songs. That would be absurd indeed! With the airs which he introduces into the sonatas. I allow him to take such liberties as he pleases but that has nothing to do with the songs.'

…............................................ .....

Taken from The Songs of Scotland by G F Graham, etc 1865

Trinkie

trinkie

22-Jan-12, 11:31

Of a' the Airts the Wind can Blaw
by Robert Burns

Of a' the airts the wind can blaw,
I dearly lo'e the west,
For there the bonnie lassie lives,
The lass I lo'e best;
There wild-woods grow and rivers row,
And mony a hill between,
But day and night my fancy's flight
Is ever wi' my Jean.

I see her in the dewy flowers,
I see her sweet and fair:
I hear her in the tunefu' birds,
I hear her charm the air:
There's not a bonnie flower that springs
By fountain, shaw, or green,
There's not a bonnie bird that sings
But minds me o' my Jean.

What sighs and vows amang the knowes
Hae passed atween us twa!
How fond to meet, how wae to part,
That night she gaed awa!
The powers aboon can only ken
To whom the heart is seen,
That nane can be sae dear to me
As my sweet lovely Jean !

….............................

said to be one of Burns' best, so far as he wrote it.

Trinkie

Moira

22-Jan-12, 20:46

Thanks Trinkie for digging around & unearthing some of my favourites again at the appropriate time. :)

Moira

23-Jan-12, 22:29

I heard this on Moray Firth Radio today & post the BBC newslink to the Poll voting "Tam o' Shanter" the favourite Burns' poem of the Scots. :)

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-scotland-16671321

trinkie

23-Jan-15, 19:14

from Caithness Courier c. 1951 by Herbert Sinclair.

A Romance In Four Lines.

And this is the season when up and down the land and away in foreign climes the name of Burns will be drowned in words and whiskey. There will be listeners, many of them, who do not know their Burns, but will enjoy the haggis, the songs, the orations and the glances at their neighbours’ make-up and dresses. Somewhere in this issue, the words “a romance in four lines” have been used, and my memory is taken to a day long ago when I had lunch with Harry Lauder – at his expense! – in the old Cavour Restaurant, Leicester Square, London. After we had finished our food, we were joined by George Robey, the English comedian, and a friend of his from “His Master’s Voice” Company. I don’t remember the conversation, which led up top Lauder’s outburst, but I do temember his words, “Ach, you Englishmen, you tak’ fower hundred pages to write a romance; I’ll gie ye a romance in four lines;

“Had we never loved sae blindly,
Had we never loved sae kindly,
Never met or never parted,
We had ne’er been broken-hearted.